


Why children let go of balloons

by Airafleeza



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Post-Reichenbach, Post-Wedding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Airafleeza/pseuds/Airafleeza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>This song is for you, John</i>, Sherlock had told him at the ceremony, noticeably uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He had looked like a lost child, and John was a bright thing amidst all these people Sherlock didn’t know, didn’t care to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Why children let go of balloons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CollateralDamage666](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/gifts).



> Part of my secret santa gift to [nosherlockdasgay](http://nosherlockdasgay.tumblr.com/links), inspired by [this text post](http://nosherlockdasgay.tumblr.com/post/71242818615/whats-your-favorite-sherlock-johnlock-headcanon)! There's a [little illustration to go with it](http://airafleeza.tumblr.com/post/71770166613), of course!  
> I just really love hearing about other people's headcanons, and that one was so sweet and so sad, ~~and I really wanted to work off it, so thank you!!~~
> 
> I hope you love it, and may you have the happiest of holidays and a fantastic New Year, my sweet!!

He hadn’t taken off his jacket when he saw Sherlock on the balcony. It had started snowing on the way home from work, and his old flatmate’s dark back was a break in the white scenery. John’s face softened at the sight—Sherlock watching the snow.

Then the sound hit him, and John looked away from his shoes and noticed. No, no jacket, and _god he must be freezing, he wouldn’t delete snow, would he?_ Sherlock’s heavy, slumped shoulders grew evident to John as he edged closer to the glass. The glass door was clouded, and when John brushed his fingertips against it, he could hardly see Sherlock through the haze.

After Sherlock’s fall, John’s dreams were like this. They weren’t nightmares—or at least nothing like his old nightmares. Sherlock was there; running besides him, scaling walls, yelling for cabbies, drinking tea but it was wrong. There was constantly a fog—a film—and John could see his friend, revisit their memories. But something was noticeably missing; there was too much space, even with Sherlock right next to him. Soon, it was just how his and Sherlock’s relationship was—three years of dreams outweighed the time he spent with the real, physical Sherlock, who was permanently out of reach.

It was captivating now, however. Sherlock, elusive, and not frustrating. John was lost in the sight of it. Breathing, shuddering once. Then— _no more nonsense_. He opened the sliding door.

On the balcony, Sherlock’s arms moved with causation to the sounds that formed the melody John recognized as his wedding gift. Sherlock had played it for his and Mary’s first dance as husband and wife. But this rendition was different. The other was too sweet, trite, but sincere (a _t least Sherlock is trying,_ John thought, and _what did he understand of love, anyway?_ John tried to remember). This one, while it held some of the same notes, felt like it had a different message. It was deep red and distinctive. The notes were held out like arms, wanting. John could not fathom why his throat would not swallow.

The snow flurries dusted Sherlock’s curls, and there was no way he could be unaware of John, who wanted Sherlock to speak. Why was he still playing? He wondered, the scarf around his neck tight and itchy. His thin socks weren’t enough, his joints feeling stiff with the cold starting at his toes.

The violin played on in ways John had never heard before—going to heights that were painful to bear, and lows that hollowed the pit of John’s stomach. Why?

 _This song is for you, John,_ Sherlock had told him at the ceremony, noticeably uncomfortable in his tuxedo. He had looked like a lost child, and John was a bright thing amidst all these people Sherlock didn’t know, didn’t care to know. Sherlock had been thoughtful, like he was extremely surprised and grateful to have John by his side. It wasn’t this way before. _It’s my gift. To you._ Why?

 The stale, freezing air burned John’s cheeks, made his eyes sting, and the frustration that had been building up for the last three years and the lack of consolation was there again. How there were things John would never understand. And god, it was still confusing sometimes—the new boundaries, the disappearance of some, Sherlock showing up at his and Mary’s flat without warning. Few and far texts and yet sometimes John forgot Sherlock’s bed was actually miles away.

He kept at it—Sherlock and his violin did. _There’s too much._ There were still the joyful and hopeful parts he had heard during his wedding dance, but slowly those too grew older, like the naiveté was fading.  He wanted the song to stop. The clouds above rolled further past them. The snow slowed.

John released his arms from his sides (how long had he kept them pinned there?), and in jolty movements he wrapped them around Sherlock’s chest. Shoulder blades against John’s face, it was the closest they’d ever been when the playing stopped.

Sherlock relaxed, discomfort and panic entering John’s body for a second. It would have been easier, so much easier for Sherlock to make a fuss. For John to laugh it off awkwardly, scratch his head and put the space between them like it used to be in his dreams. He had learned to accept his dreams. But no. John buried his face in Sherlock’s firm back instead. He was cool to the touch, and John followed the curve of his spine with his nose, nudging upwards, trying to fill all the empty spaces that were in Sherlock while his friend’s guard was down. While Sherlock would let him. And bless his soul, Sherlock understood. His head leaned back, a substantial weight on John’s own. John continued to support him, keep him upright and safe from falling over.

Then John understood: his wedding present, the love song. Why children let go of balloons.

“I know,” he said gravely. “I know.”


End file.
